A man was clearing out his storage shed, tossing out junk and old clutter. He piled everything in the yard, and among the rubbish, he noticed a thin, grimy bookprobably left behind by children. He opened it and began to read. One line struck him: *»Was a man born just to dig in the dirt, then die without even scratching out his own grave?»*
The words hit him like a slap. Wasnt that exactly his life? From his youth, it had been nothing but workhome, the garden, the fence, the gate. Every spring, ploughing and tending the soil. He and his wife had even claimed another plot of land, wasting their best years on it. The farm had turned them into slaves. Now, in their old age, their backs were hunched from years of toil.
Theyd seen nothing. Nothing at all! Never travelled. Their minds dulled from labour, their hands stained with earth, eyes forever fixed on the ground. His wifewashing, cooking, canning, picklingendlessly fretting over their next meal. Gorky was right in *»Makar Chudra»*: man *is* a slave, forever worrying about bread.
Theyd read no books, knew nothing of culture, could barely string two words together. A deep ache settled in his chest. Had his whole life been wasted? Somewhere, theatres thrived, palm trees swayed, clever folk discussed grand ideaswhile he and his wife stayed peasants, bound to the land. Even their children walked the same path, doomed to the same fate.
What had he ever known? Never worn fine clothes. Never ventured beyond Cornwall. Not even been to London. Flown on a plane just once. A few train rides. His whole existenceyard, garden, livestock, chickens. Work till holiday, then work at home. A wife forever bustling.
One day, hed die without even digging his own grave. What a perfect line.
He smoothed the dirty book with his hand and carried it inside, placing it on the side table. He couldnt bring himself to throw it away. Everyone should read itrealise their own slavery.
The day ended. He and his wife sat in the twilight, the lamps unlit. He shared his thoughtsabout their life of servitude, the wasted years, how death loomed and all theyd known was soil. What had it all been for? Lifes given just once, and theyd squandered it.
His wife said nothing. She fetched water, tended the flowers, then pulled fresh sheets from the cupboard and made the bed. Finally, she turned to him. «Come to bed. Enough chatter.»
Neither slept. He sensed her wakefulness, heard her sigh. Then she faced him. «Not everyones meant to be an explorer or a Columbus. God kissed *them* for a purpose. The rest of us? He commands us to find joy in labour, in the earth. To raise children. To dig potatoes. Why gaze at greatness?»
After a pause, she added, *»Im no slave. I did what I chose, what gladdened me. Ive no regrets.»*
He rose, threw his old coat over his shoulders, and stepped outside. Stars glittered gold above. He lit a cigarette and sat on the step.
*»Fancy thatwhat a clever wife Ive got! Fifty years together, and I never knew.»*
She kept the house, fed the family, scrubbed the floorsyet she was no slave. Because God had kissed her for this: for the home, the children, the husband, the family. Because everything begins and ends there. *What a wise woman. Who wouldve thought?*
The night air carried the scent of turned earth, and for the first time, it didnt smell like bondage.
